


love and lost souls

by hunterishere



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Angst, Broadway, Connor Murphy (Dear Evan Hansen) Deserves Better, Deh - Freeform, Depression, Evan Hansen - Freeform, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gay Connor Murphy (Dear Evan Hansen), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Musicals, Soft Connor Murphy (Dear Evan Hansen), connor Murphy - Freeform, dear evan hansen - Freeform, i wrote this backstage during a tech rehearsal like a real theatre kid, if you havent read the book, im probably too pretentious for my own good, it might suck, read the book, this is about the book tho cuz miguel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:34:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24173704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hunterishere/pseuds/hunterishere
Summary: Connor sneaks out to meet with the one person who cares.
Relationships: Miguel/Connor Murphy (Dear Evan Hansen)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 43





	love and lost souls

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS:  
> Mentions of self harm, drug use (weed)  
> PLEASE STAY SAFE OR I WILL TRACK YOU DOWN AND FORCE FEED YOU MY SEROTONIN  
> if you havent read the book you will not understand because you have not met the wonderful Miguel and therefor you have no rights

1:30 am  
It's way too fucking cold for this. I pull my sweatshirt tighter across my chest, protecting against the wind. It’s not usually quite this cold by September, but hey, if mother earth feels as cold and bitter as I do, let her express it. I hear crunching beneath my combat boots as I approach the familiar rusty swing set.  
The glow of a street lamp illuminates the metal bars and chains. The swing groans as I gently sit myself down. There are no stars tonight (thanks pollution!) and the sky is as black as I’ve ever seen it. One long abyss of dark and clouds. Just barely a sliver of a moon. This comforts me, in a strange, relatable way.

My pocket vibrates, pulling me out of my swirling thoughts. Suddenly, I remember why I’m here. My eyes burn momentarily at the bright white of my screen contrasted against the dark night around me. “Almost there” the screen reads. I take in my last few moments of privacy with the sky, and without even thinking, I’ve begun to swing. My boots are hardly scuffing the ground anymore, which is a big feat, considering my lank. Before I know it I’m really swinging, as if I’m a child. 

“I didn’t think this old thing was even capable of use” Miguel’s voice rings. I hadn’t heard him arrive. He kicks the pole softly, sending a shake through my spine.

“And yet,” I reply smoothly, “Here I am.”

“All 140 pounds.” he laughs.

“150!” I scoff back, “And you’re in no place to call me scrawny Mr. Five Foot Six!”

It’s all so normal, so comfortable. It’s always comfortable with Miguel. I must have let my Bad Boy Demeanor down in the thrill, because I hear myself giggle. It’s hard to remember to stay cynical when there’s cold air in my face, and I’m practically flying. It’s hard to do anything when Miguel is looking at me like that.

“Alright, alright, come down” Miguel surrenders. I let myself swing high a few more times for momentum, and then jump out at the highest point. I land hard but steady, just in front of him. I’m probably standing too close, but I was already a little high when he texted me, and the rest of my confidence stems from sleep deprivation. I pull a plastic bag out of my pocket and shove it in the space between us. “Got a lighter?”

2:15 am

I inhale deeply, savoring the flavor in my mouth. I’m not one to waste weed. My lungs start to feel like they’re popping corn, so I exhale lazily, into Miguel’s face. He doesn’t flinch. He’s looking at me like I’m a book in a language he can’t understand. My legs are cold and itchy against the chilled molch, but my chest is warm. It’s so silent around us, not even crickets left from the summer. It brings me peace.

I take another lazy hit before passing the joint to Miguel. He smiles in that way that feels private and real, and I wish I could smile back. He looks me in the eyes while he inhales, conversing with me, silently. Then, in the most elegant manner I’ve ever seen, he exhales towards to sky. His chin is still lifted long after the smoke has gone. I feel like I should say something poetic. This is the kind of night poetry is written about. Miguel is the kind of person poetry is written about.

“There are no stars” Miguel notices.

“None except you” I say. I go soft when I’m around him. Miguel doesn’t crumble my walls, he simply builds doors. And somehow, by a miracle, he never gets tired of building.

“That was,” a pause while he breathes in, “really fucking cheesy”. Smoke pours out of his mouth as he laughs.

“Fuck you” I say lovingly, but I turn my head to the side for effect. And maybe a little to hide the blush.

“Don't blame me for your mistakes” 

“Ok, but I will blame you for leaching my shit” I say, snatching the joint away from him and taking the last hit.

“Hey! I share mine with you!” Miguel protests. I can't help the snort that escapes my throat, which quickly transforms into a coughing fit. Miguel seems to be really enjoying the sight in front of him. I, however, feel like my tonsils are being removed.

He hands me his water bottle between gasps, and when I finally get ahold of myself, I feel like an ass. I lay down flat on my back and he follows.

“You never cough!” I whine.

“What can I say.”

“It’s just unfair.”

“Is it?”

“Yes. I smoke more than you anyway. It doesn't make sense.” I huff

“Is this really about weed?”

“... No” I admit. He doesn't say anything. He knows my boundaries. I think I love him. I roll to my side so I can face him.

“You're so goddamn elegant.”

“I try.”

“You don't even need to. You glide through life like… like it's easy.”

“Connor… you know my life isn't easy,” he takes my hand in his. He's the only person who's ever held my hand. He's the only person who isn't afraid of me.

“I know, I know. But you handle everything with such grace. It's obnoxious.”

“Sorry” the sarcasm is palpable. I stay quiet. I can't remember the last time I was this honest.

After a while, Miguel breaks the silence. “You're hand is so cold.”

“It's fucking freezing.” I say, though I’m not quite as cold after the high. Everything is fuzzier.

Miguel pulls me up so we're sitting again, and properly takes both my hands in his. He starts rubbing them to create heat, but it's not doing much since his hands are freezing too.

“I don't feel like I’m gliding” he says out of nowhere.

“Huh?” he stops rubbing, but he's still holding my hands.

“Through life. I don't feel like I’m gliding. I’m stumbling at best.”

“Miguel,” I deadpan, “I am stumbling. You are fucking flying.”

“You don't give yourself enough credit.”

“Please! I give myself too much credit!”

“No way.” I rip my hands out of his and start to gesture violently.

“Let's see… I was expelled, put in rehab for 6 weeks, punched a hole through my door, threw a printer at my second grade teacher, and none of that is near my worst. I mean- Jesus, Miguel! Why do you think we have to meet at a playground at two in the fucking morning!”

“Because it's romantic,”

“I'm serious!”

“So am I.”

Silence falls on us again, but it's heavy this time. I hadn't realized I was yelling. 

“I’m sorry…”

“It's okay,” he says calmly. He sounds genuine. I don't know what I did to deserve him.

We sit in front of each other, under a blanket of quiet, for what feels like decades. I let my eyes drift to my lap. I look at the hands Miguel was holding, and the jeans I wear every day, and the molch I used to play on so many years ago. It all feels so far away.

Suddenly, I feel a hand lifting my chin, and then lips on my own. He's gentle but fierce, just like always. I let him guide me onto my back, let him run his fingers through my hair, let him caress my jaw. I feel myself melting into him. Finally, Miguel rolls to my side.

“What was that for?” I question.

“You were feeling sorry for yourself.” he squeezes my hand reassuringly.

“Well that was one hell of a pep talk.”

“I was tired of flirting.”

Miguel starts rubbing his thumb over the back of my hand like it's nothing. It's everything to me. He is everything. He makes up for every lost star in the sky and every goosebump on my body. I love him. I could never say any of this to him.

My fingers start to tickle with kisses trailing them. They continue up my wrist until my sleeve gets in the way. Miguel starts to push it up, but I pull my arm against my chest. I know he’s trying (and succeeding) to be soft, but I can't let… that happen.

But Miguel is too smart for me, even when he's smacked out of his mind. God even his disappointed face is beautiful.

“Connor,” he's more alarmed then he ought to be, “Show me your arm.”

“I'd rather not.”

“Connor.” He ends it with a hard period. Fuck.

“Why should I? So you can yell at me? No thanks.” I don't want to be fighting. I know that he cares.

“Do you…”

“No” I cut him off. I don't want to be having this conversation right now. Or ever.

“Don't lie to me.” he never lets go of his composure, but I know him well enough to know he's upset.

I didn't think I was capable of crying anymore, after how many nights I spent wishing for catharsis. And yet, in this goddamn playground, in front of the one person who matters, I break. I feel the first tear roll off my chin and curse myself for being so weak.

“It doesn't matter,” I manage to squeak.

“Don't be like that, of course it matters” now that he's talking I hear his voice wobble too, which doesn't help me calm down.

“Connor, you matter so much. And if you-” his voice gets caught in his throat and a whole new batch of tears well up behind my eyes, “if you're… hurting yourself… I can help. Or-or I can get you help-”

“Miguel, it's okay” I say through tears

“Except that it's not!”

I've never seen him act like this. Through all the time I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him panic.

“Connor that is not okay. Please,” hes really crying now and I don't know what to do. I’ve never been good at handling emotions. “Please stop. I can help you stop.” Now that we're both sobbing messes I take him in my arms. We're in an awkward sitting hug but I don't care because Miguel is crying into my sweatshirt. I tuck his head under my chin and smooth his hair against his head.

“Promise me you’ll stop” he begs. I would rather lose a limb then disappoint him. I let out a big sigh.

“I promise I'll try” I answer. I pull him tighter to me. I love him so much.

3:00 am

“Connor,”

“What?”

“You fell asleep.”

“Wonder Why.”

“Connor,”

“What?” I crack one eye open to see Miguel leaning over me like a mobile.

“Don't schlump!”

“Even if we hadn't smoked, I don't think I’ve had a good nights sleep since I was 13.”

“Why does that change now?” Because I’m with you, I think.

“Because this molch is extremely comfortable.”

“Connoooooor,” he lengthens my name like a child.

“Migueeeeeel,” I tease.

“At least go home and sleep in your own bed.” he frowns. Damn him and his care for my well being.

“But then I’d have to leave you.” I say. We stay like that, me laying down and him sitting to my right, listening to the music of the wind. Just when I start to drift off again, Miguel speaks up.

“Why aren't you ever like this when you're sober?” he asks.

“I don't know.” I lie. I find his hand and give it a squeeze without ever opening my eyes.

“Do you really care about me?” that one surprises me. It shocks me right out of my schlump, I sit up abruptly.

“Yes. God, yes.” I’m in love with you, Miguel. I would die for your eyes. You are the only person who's ever given me a chance. Why can't I say any of this to you? “I care more than you will ever know.”

“Okay.”

“You okay?”

“I will be.”

“Can I walk you home?” He flashes that genuine smile of his once again.

“Of course”


End file.
